Chapter 11: THE INTERVIEW
The Alice in Wonderland statue was smaller than I remembered from photographs.
Bronze figures frozen mid-motion—Alice on her mushroom, the Mad Hatter with his pocket watch, the White Rabbit looking perpetually late. Children climbed on it while parents took photos. A normal Tuesday in Central Park.
I arrived thirty minutes early and found a bench with a clear view of the approach paths. Finch would be watching. I wanted him to see me waiting—patient, unhurried, not trying to hide.
Show him you're not afraid. Show him you respect the game.
The wait gave me time to study the crowd. Joggers, tourists, a food vendor selling pretzels. No sign of Reese, but that meant nothing—the man had been CIA. If he was watching, I wouldn't see him until he wanted me to.
At 11:47, Finch appeared.
He walked with his distinctive limp, one hand resting on a cane I hadn't seen in my surveillance photos. New acquisition, or hidden until now? His suit was immaculate, his posture careful. A man who moved through the world like he expected it to hurt him.
He settled on a bench near the statue and produced a small bag of bird seed. Pigeons gathered immediately, cooing and pecking at his feet.
Feeding the birds. Making himself look harmless. Classic misdirection.
I gave him three minutes to get comfortable. Then I stood and walked over.
"Mr. Finch. Thank you for seeing me."
He didn't look up immediately. His hand continued its slow, steady scattering of seed. When he finally spoke, his voice was precisely modulated—neither warm nor cold.
"You have me at a disadvantage, Mr...?"
"Webb. Marcus Webb." The cover identity felt natural now, after months of use. "Though I suspect you already knew that."
"I knew the name on your message routing. Names can be purchased."
"They can." I sat on the opposite end of the bench, leaving plenty of space between us. "But they can also be verified. I imagine you've done your research."
A pigeon landed on my shoulder. I kept still, letting it peck at nothing before fluttering away.
Finch almost smiled. "They like people who stay still."
"I've had practice."
The silence stretched. A test—Finch waiting to see if I would fill it with nervous chatter. I didn't. I watched the children climbing on Alice's mushroom and let the quiet speak for itself.
Finally, Finch turned to face me. His eyes were sharp behind his glasses, cataloging every detail of my appearance.
"How did you find the numbers, Mr. Webb?"
"Pattern recognition." The truth, curated. "I work in IT security. Data analysis is my specialty. About six months ago, I started noticing correlations—violent crimes that seemed predictable if you had the right data. People in danger before anyone else knew."
"And you decided to... intervene?"
"Someone had to. The patterns were too clear to ignore."
"How noble."
The word was neutral, but I caught the undercurrent of skepticism. Finch had heard too many noble motivations that masked darker purposes.
"Not noble," I said. "Necessary. I couldn't see people in danger and do nothing. Once you know, you can't unknow."
Something flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe. He understood that burden better than anyone.
"The woman—Torres—your resolution was clean. No violence. No exposure."
"That's the goal."
"And the others? You mentioned you've been 'handling numbers' for some time."
I gave him the summary. Nine numbers over four months. Eight resolved successfully. One... complicated. The details were sparse—I didn't want to give him enough to trace my movements—but the pattern was clear. I was competent. I was careful. I was real.
Finch listened without interruption. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"Why come to me now?"
"Because I can't do this alone forever. And because you're better at it than I am."
"You found me. That suggests considerable skill."
"Skill isn't the same as resources. Or partners." I met his gaze directly. "You have both. I'd like to be part of that."
Another silence. Finch's hand had stopped scattering bird seed. The pigeons were getting restless.
"You understand that trust is not given freely in this work."
"I understand that trust is earned. I'm prepared to earn it."
He studied me for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. I could almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes—risk assessment, threat analysis, potential value.
"I'll give you a trial, Mr. Webb." His voice was careful. "One week. Supervised. You'll work from our location, under observation. If you prove useful—and trustworthy—we can discuss a continued arrangement."
"And if I don't?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I accept," I said.
Finch stood, brushing bird seed from his coat. "Come to this address tomorrow morning. 8 AM sharp. Don't be late."
He handed me a card with a Midtown address—the library, though the card didn't say so. His handwriting was precise and careful.
"Thank you, Mr. Finch."
He limped away without looking back. The pigeons scattered at his departure, regrouping near the statue where a child had dropped part of a pretzel.
I sat on the bench for another ten minutes, processing what had just happened.
One week. Seven days to become indispensable.
The system pulsed at the edge of my vision.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: HAROLD FINCH]
[STATUS: TRIAL EMPLOYEE]
[TRUST: 15% → 22%]
Twenty-two percent. A start.
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